


I was falling in love years before I ever met someone

by magical_little_fool



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is trans, Because it's my fanfic and i make the rules dammit, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Coming Out, Cullen thought he was straight oops, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Iron Bull knows all, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), No transphobia except one random dude who gets the shit kicked out of him, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Cullen Rutherford, Pining, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, au where cullen is more fun, but still very rooted in canon, but they got some shit to work through first, everyone gets to be happy, i spent way too much time in the keep to make this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magical_little_fool/pseuds/magical_little_fool
Summary: An AU in which Cullen Rutherford finds himself falling in love with Aelis Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste, from the moment they meet on the battlefield. The only problem? The Herald is a mage. And a man.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Lace Harding/Sera, Leliana/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Male Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 29
Kudos: 39





	1. The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin! This is a work in progress. This fic follows the events of the game with some variation and more attention paid to character interactions and relationships. I wanted to make a fic where Cullen was the one yearning for once, instead of the Inquisitor. Also, I think his character has so much more potential than is explored in the games, so I decided to write it myself. 
> 
> Title comes from "Prosthetic Love" by Typhoon.

Cullen Rutherford was about 50% sure he was straight. Before Kirkwall he had been 75% sure. The Champion was...unnaturally charismatic. Even committing too many crimes to count and wrapped up with an abomination, Hawke would throw these grins at him any time they crossed paths that made him blush all the way to his toes. It didn’t make any sense to Cullen--Hawke was not only a man, he was completely and utterly not his type. Hawke was a rake. He was disreputable, rumored to have slept with half his party of misfits before settling down with a terrorist, and more smarmy than even Varric. On top of it all, he was an apostate. An apostate with absolutely no fear of Templars. Hawke would call Cullen an asshole to his face, then crack a joke about blowing him without missing a beat. He drove Cullen insane, in every form of the word. He was also the first person to make him truly question his role in the Templar order, to shake at the chains that held him since youth.

So, Cullen chalked it up to extraordinary circumstances and an unusually charming personality, and reassured himself he was straight. He just...didn’t think too hard about the number of times he had thought about the Champion while relieving himself. He had a long history of being interested in kind, beautiful, gentle women. Women like the Hero of Ferelden, Maker rest her soul. Never mind that Warden Surana was the last woman he had felt anything for, or that he hadn’t slept with someone without half a bottle of whiskey and the understanding that he would not be staying the night since the fall of Kinloch.

Thus, 50% sure he was straight.

Probably.

Then the Herald happened.

Cullen Rutherford wasn’t sure what he was expecting the Herald of Andraste to be like. He certainly expected...something. When he’d personally helped drag the elf from the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he was shaking with both fury and fear. Even after weeks without lyrium, Cullen could still feel, could still smell magic on him. He’d recoiled when his gloved hands had first closed around the faintly glowing green wrist. Cullen swallowed it down and carried the elf back to Haven with a small contingent of templars, reassuring himself that even if this being was responsible for the explosion at the Conclave, he was barely breathing at the moment. Whatever the elf was, he wasn’t going to be able to hurt anyone. For now, at least. Despite the damning implications of his discovery, Cullen could not help but feel a sort of sympathy for the elf, who shook fitfully with fever and jolts of energy as the green mark on his hand sparked. Despite the years of training screaming otherwise, Cullen felt something protective stir in his chest as he hurried away from the wreck of the Temple with the small elf in his arms.

But then he had startled awake for all of three seconds in Adan’s hut as the healer and the apostate, Solas, attempted to stabilize the Mark; if Cullen hadn’t been there, shield in hand, the human healer would have been frozen solid with a sudden blast of Winter’s Grasp. The elf didn’t so much as cry out, just opened fever-bright eyes a fraction, lifted a palm, and went boneless again.

It set off every alarm in Cullen’s body, and if he hadn’t felt a personal obligation to protect the healer, he probably would have taken off from the hut at a run or, worse, killed the mage in a blind panic. But he stayed his blade, ice sliding off his shield and heart hammering. Adan had to excuse himself for a few moments, eyes bright and hands trembling. Solas was unaffected, lifting clammy fingers and eyelids with fascination.

“I do not believe he meant to hurt us, Commander,” Solas had said, seeing the way Cullen clutched his sword. “His body is desperate, and I’m sure whatever he saw at the Conclave left him quite frightened. This is a good sign. It means he is fighting the fever, healing. There may be hope for him yet.”

Cullen did not think him and Solas agreed on what “good” or “hope” meant. For three days the man who they called the Herald of Andraste had slept, and for three days, Cullen had stood guard over him, knuckles white around his sword and eyes fixed on the lyrium bottles on Adan’s desk. He would not let the events of Kinloch, of Kirkwall, happen again.

The mage did not so much as twitch again, even when Cassandra came to haul him to the dungeons after being assured he would not die, at least not immediately. The Mark on his hand still sparked fitfully from time to time, spreading steadily up his wrist as the hole in the sky grew. He still looked small, but Cullen did not feel any pity now. As the Seeker bound him in iron, he felt only a creeping suspicion that not even Cassandra would be enough to hold the Herald if he struck against them. If he had survived the Conclave and could fire off offensive spells in the midst of a fever, Cullen wasn’t sure what they could do to contain him. He hadn’t seen a mage of such power since Kirkwall. Later, as Leliana and Cassandra waited for the prisoner to wake for questioning, he sat slumped over his desk, hands wrapped around his old lyrium philter. Cullen wondered if he was making a mistake.

Then the prisoner appeared on the field, and Cullen’s doubt wavered. The elf’s silvery hair was pulled into a series of careful braids, and even streaked with demon gore, it shone brilliantly in the mountain sun. He cut down demons with practiced ease, precise in every movement of his body. He fought in a mesmerizing rhythm, casting barriers across allies one beat, blasting a shade across the battlefield with fire the next, swinging around to catch a wisp with the sharp end of the staff before beginning the dance again. Cullen kept his distance from the Herald on the field, still wary, but he could not deny his skill. He, Solas, Varric, and Cassandra cut a path through the demons that had been overwhelming Cullen and his men. Then, by some grace of Andraste Herself, the Rift above them vanished.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas said, stepping up beside the other elf. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric said.

Cullen pulled off his lion helm and approached the small, unexpected group. More than anything, he was just glad to see the Seeker still with the mysterious elf.

“Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.”

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up. He couldn’t help the anger in his voice, the memory of ice on his shield still too fresh. “Is it? I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

The elf looked up at him. He had enormous eyes that flickered blue and green like the Antivan sea in the sun. With his long, pale lashes and auburn vallaslin like branches blooming on his cheeks, he looked like some forest creature, not the supposed slayer of the Divine. Despite the obvious aura of power about him, despite just cutting down a small legion of demons like paper, he almost looked...afraid. Sea green eyes flickered between Cullen’s Templar shield and the sword at his side.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try my best.”

Cullen softened, lips quirking into a small smile.

“That’s all we can ask.”

The elf relaxed a bit, and Cullen felt something flutter in his belly.

He swallowed it and pressed on.

“The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there,” Cullen said.

“Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander,” Cassandra said.

“Maker watch over you--for all our sakes.” Cullen eyed the mysterious elf one last time, mind spinning in a million directions, before turning away to lead an injured soldier off the field.

He had no idea what he had expected...but it wasn’t that.


	2. The Inquisition Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has a ~type~. The slow burn begins. It will pick up soon, I'm just excited to lay down some character groundwork. Most of this fic will take place from Cullen's POV. We'll get to know Aelis soon--and he's hardly shy. He just doesn't trust templars. 
> 
> At least, not yet. 
> 
> Please share thoughts, feelings, and leave kudos!

Later, as the elf lay on Adan’s bed again, recovering from a nasty battle with a Pride demon, Cullen would learn from Leliana that he was called Aelis of Clan Lavellan. How she had made contact with his clan in the Free Marches so fast, Cullen truly did not want to know. According to her sources, he was a mage of no small talent, and had been sent to the Conclave as a spy, to see what the humans were planning. Leliana knew where Aelis had been born to the name of his first lover (a _man_ ), but still not how in Heaven’s name he had survived the Conclave. No one did. Not the handful of clerics who were left, and, according to Cassandra and Varric, not even Aelis himself. He had told them as much on the mountain. Aelis had said the last thing he remembered was a woman pushing him out of the Fade, and then waking up in Haven. 

To everyone’s surprise, Cassandra seemed to believe him. As the four of them, him, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra, gathered around the War Table, she spoke in his defense.

“He offered himself freely to our cause, despite knowing the Mark was killing him. He did not attack me, even when he had the chance. I do not understand why, but the elf wants to help us.”

She did not say it, but Cullen heard it. 

_I think the Maker sent him to us._

Cullen considered it. 

“A mage?”

Leliana smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time. As I’m sure you remember.”

Memories of the Ferelden Circle, of a pretty elven girl with long, dark hair and gentle blue eyes, so small and delicate and terrifyingly powerful in his arms as he carried her from her Harrowing, flashed through Cullen’s mind.

He froze over the War Table, not daring to look at the Nightingale. Of _course_ she knew, probably more than Cullen had ever wanted anyone to know. She’d traveled with the Hero, even loved her if the rumors were true. 

“Y-yes, I suppose you’re right,” he finally managed. 

Josephine tapped her clipboard in irritation. “None of this matters if the Herald does not survive the night. Do we have any updates from Solas or Adan?” 

Leliana sighed. “It appears Solas has stabilized the Mark, but the Herald has yet to wake. Adan does not know why. Lavellan appears to be perfectly healthy, if a bit bruised. Solas says it may have something to do with the Breach, but the good news is that it has stopped spreading. Rifts remain along the countryside, but new ones are not appearing, and the hole in the sky remains stable.” She shrugged. “It appears to be good news, but we must wait.”

___

The Herald did finally wake, and he seemed eager to help, if a bit confused. Harritt had crafted him a fresh set of armor, something to fit his Dalish heritage. Cullen nearly choked when he saw the ruffled grey pauldrons--Surana had worn almost the exact same armor when she’d arrived at the Ferelden Circle as a Warden. It was burned into his mind, as everything from the Tower was. The armor itself was lovely, crafted in varying shades of green and brown leathers, but it made his chest feel heavy and cold.

He tried to cover it by offering the Herald a smile as Cassandra introduced them.

“You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces.”

“It was only for a moment on the field. I’m pleased you survived,” Cullen said.

The Herald smiled back at him, and that same strange feeling from the battlefield stirred in his stomach. They considered each other for another moment, sea green eyes boring into gold, and Cullen’s heart beat faster under his armor.

Cullen swallowed, grateful for Leliana and Josephine taking the lead. He didn’t have time for this, not again. 

It wasn’t until the subject of his status as Herald of Andraste came up that Cullen spoke again.

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”

Aelis wrinkled his long, proud nose in distaste. The branches of his _vallaslin_ danced along his sharp cheeks. He had full, pink lips, and a blush of freckles across his nose, and Cullen tried very hard not to stare. 

“I’m no herald of anything. Particularly Andraste.”

Cullen let out a low bark of a laugh. Did he not see the power in the title, or did he truly not care what people said? It likely didn’t matter, but Cullen found himself with more questions than before. He swallowed them all, letting them sit alongside the feeling that was definitely _not_ butterflies in his belly. 

“I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

They argued about what to do. Leliana was eager to contact the mages, Cullen the templars, and Josephine had to remind them both the Inquisition didn’t have the power or influence to approach either party yet. Lavellan agreed to work as an agent for them, taking up a mission to stabilize the Hinterlands and track down a cleric. He was twitchy as they spoke, chewing at his lower lip, tapping his long, thin fingers against the war table. Even in the warmth of the candlelight, he was pale as the moon. Cullen wasn’t sure how long he spent staring at him; time seemed to still as they stood around the table. Aelis did not look at him again, not even when Cullen asked him to do what he could to increase the Inquisition's influence while he was in the Hinterlands. It frustrated Cullen, made something needy and petulant stir inside him. He wanted the Herald to look at him, to see him looking at him. Why did he avoid his gaze? Hawke had always felt his stare, even when he didn’t want him to, turning to leer at him any time Cullen was caught. 

He froze, a familiar, hot feeling pooling in his stomach. 

Oh, damn it all to Hell.


	3. The Threat Remains (as do the butterflies)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another day, another chapter. I cannot stop writing this fic. I have probably another four chapters to edit after this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy our stupid, pining templar!

When Cullen had asked Lavellan to expand their influence, he hadn’t expected the elf to take to it with such...gusto. The first time he left for the Hinterlands, it was on a threadbare mare he shared with Varric. He was tense, face drawn and lips in a tight line, barely registering the endless stream of chatter from the dwarf. When he returned, it was on his own shining Ferelden Forder. He was splattered in blood and demon guts, but he was grinning ear to ear, laughing at every joke Varric cracked and adding a few of his own. Cullen watched in fascination as Lavellan swung off his horse, landing lightly on the snow-crusted ground. He jogged up the stairs to Haven’s gate with a spring in his step, arms full of rare and wild herbs, Varric trailing behind. In the War Room, Cassandra couldn’t help but smile as she reported the Herald’s accomplishments: meat for the villagers, supply caches for refugees, several strange artifacts, a plan to secure mounts for the Inquisition, and, best of all, a supply of medicinal herbs that would keep their soldiers in good health for a month. On top of it all, he’d closed half the Fade rifts in the Hinterlands. Cullen was floored. He was proving to be an incredibly adept agent. 

Josephine set off to contact devout nobles on their behalf, Leliana began investigating a rumor in Kirkwall on behalf of Varric, and Cullen organized men to build watchtowers across the Hinterlands to secure the favor of the horsemaster. Meanwhile, Lavellan journeyed with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas to Val Royeaux to see where the Chantry stood, and if they could refute their heretical status. He didn’t seem afraid, despite being an elven mage walking into the capital of Orlais. Cullen half expected him to get swarmed by an angry mob. 

Instead, he came back with a powerful circle mage called Madame de Fer and a madwoman named Sera with connections to an enormous spy network. Cassandra told a troubling tale of rouge templars and a Lord Seeker gone mad with power. The Herald barely paused to take a breath and fill a few requisitions before he was off to the Storm Coast to recruit the Bull’s Chargers. He didn’t even come back to resupply in Haven before heading to the Hinterlands again on a tip from Leliana about a Grey Warden named Blackwall. He was a force of nature, securing connections and supplies for the Inquisition across Ferelden. 

Cullen had no idea what to make of the elf. He hardly saw him, save for when he had a particularly nasty injury and sulked around Haven for a week straight, doing little else except gather elfroot and iron in the hills and speak to his closest companions. Since recruiting the Iron Bull, the Herald took him, Cassandra, and Varric everywhere. The trainees gossiped about them constantly, and the stories grew taller by the day. They whispered his name amongst themselves like a prayer. People seemed drawn to him. Each day, new recruits wound up at Cullen’s tent, eyes wide and mouths full of questions about the great Herald of Andraste. Even Josephine and Leliana had taken to gossiping about him at War Table meetings whenever he was away, which was growing more and more common. Cullen wasn’t sure when he had begun keeping track of the Herald’s comings and goings, but he knew the canter of his horse half a mile down the path from Haven. He hadn’t really meant to do it. If anything, he had been trying very hard to avoid it. 

Since Lavellan had become a fixture in Haven and a full member of the Inquisition, Cullen had done everything in his power to smother the butterflies that sprung up in his belly whenever the elf was near. He did his best to ignore his presence, to not stare at the way candlelight pooled on his pale skin, or the lean press of his muscles against his leathers when he leaned over the War Table. Besides his arrivals in Haven, the Commander kept himself largely ignorant of the Herald and his doings in the village. Unfortunately, his efforts were entirely in vain. One morning, when Cullen had a nasty lyrium headache and Lavellan was wading through the Fallow Mire with his usual circle, Josephine and Leliana had begun gossiping in earnest about whether or not the Herald was particularly taken with any of his companions. They were debating about how intimate relations between an elf and a qunari could take place when he snapped. 

“Now, really,” Cullen said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I have an army’s worth of reports here that we need to sort through, and you two cannot stop creating stories about a man we hardly see or know save for these meetings!”

Leliana regarded him, eyes unreadable. 

“On the contrary, Commander, I see Aelis quite often. He visits my tent each time he returns to Haven, eager for updates about the Inquisition. He is...quite curious. About everything,” she said. “He may talk more than Varric does. Haven’t you noticed him making his rounds?”

Cullen bristled. 

Josephine looked between them, clearly confused. 

“Commander, has the Herald _never_ come to speak to you?”

Cullen shook his head, throat tight. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

“He is a very busy man,” Cullen said, face growing hot. 

Josephine pursed her lips.

“Have you made it quite clear you are no longer a templar?”

Cullen stared at her, aghast. “I’ve hardly seen him. Why would it matter, even if I was? There is no Circle left to bring him to.” The women’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I would try if there was! I renounced the order for the Inquisition, unless you both have forgotten.” He tossed his stack of papers on the War Table, temper frayed and energy spent. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling unwell.”

The Commander hurried out of the War Room before any more embarrassing questions could be asked. He tried desperately to stifle the shame coursing through him. He couldn’t be the only one the Herald didn’t speak to. Even if he was, why did he care?

Cullen knew he was telling himself lies. Trying to stifle his feelings had only made them worse. The less he knew about the Herald, the more he wondered. If he wasn’t training recruits or reading reports, his mind was plagued with sea green eyes and strong arms and silver hair. It raised his hackles, made his skin itch worse than lyrium did. It wasn’t even the Herald’s fault--he wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

He was just distractingly beautiful. 

___

The Herald of Andraste returned from the Fallow Mire two days after Cullen’s outburst in the War room. He had the missing Inquisition soldiers in tow, along with a few Avvar tribesmen and a mine’s worth of summer stone and blue vitriol. He looked sodden and exhausted, barely stopping to drop his horse at the stables before hurrying to the small cabin he had been provided without speaking to a soul. Cullen’s eyes followed him up the steps, mesmerized by the way his wet leather pants were plastered to his ample backside.

“See something you like, Commander?”

Cullen started violently, almost dropping his stack of reports. The Iron Bull had appeared at his side, enormous arms folded over his bare chest and lone eye far too knowing for Cullen’s liking. 

The Commander cleared his throat. “I am glad our captured men were found and brought home. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.”

Cullen ran a shaking hand through his blond hair.

“You know,” Bull said, tone light. “You could always go talk to him, instead of staring after him like a pining mabari.” 

Cullen’s breath stuck in his throat. Maker’s  _ Breath _ was he that obvious?

Bull clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder that nearly sent him tumbling into the snow. 

“Don’t worry, he has no idea. Bit oblivious. But I suggest the two of you stop avoiding each other before someone smarter than me or Leliana starts asking questions.”

He swallowed thickly, trying to regain his composure. 

“I--yes. Thank you for the advice, Bull.” There was no use in lying to a Ben-Hassrath. 

“Any time.” Bull gave him a half-salute, then lumbered to his usual spot with his lieutenant, Krem. 

Cullen considered how long it would take to find a lake that wasn’t frozen so that he could drown himself. 


	4. In Hushed Whispers (and longing stares)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis decides it is time to speak to Cullen, and their relationship fundamentally changes.

By some Grace of the Maker, Lavellan broke the ice first. He stopped by to chat two days after the Fallow Mire, just before heading into the Hinterlands again. Cullen was in his usual place at the center of a horde of training soldiers when the Herald started towards him from the stable. He was in full armor with an enormous lightning staff strapped to his back. It was late morning in Haven, and the mountain sun turned his hair the color of silverite. 

Cullen’s mouth went dry. He busied himself with barking orders at recruits, trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring.

“You there! There’s a shield in your hand. Block with it. If this man were your enemy, you’d be dead.”

The Herald cleared his throat politely behind him. 

“Commander, I was wondering if I could have a word?”

Cullen turned away from the men, feigning polite surprise as if he hadn’t been ogling the elf from across the field moments before.

“Of course. What can I help you with?”

Lavellan was stiff, tension in every line of his body. His fingers twitched at his side.

“I-I wanted to thank you for how quickly your men got those watchtowers up.” Sea green eyes were fixed on the space above Cullen’s left shoulder, where his lion-mane pauldron tickled his jaw. “With luck, Master Dennet will join the Inquisition when we reach him in the Hinterlands.”

Cullen felt ill. He had never, not even in war meetings, seen Lavellan act so formal. He didn’t even seem frightened, just like he would rather be doing anything but speak with the Commander.

“Herald--”

“My name is _Aelis_ ,” the elf interrupted sharply, eyes flashing to Cullen’s face. “Not Herald.”

Maker preserve him, Cullen really wanted to drown himself now. Something must have shown on his face, because Aelis’ eyes softened, his eyebrows unknitting. The men, who had at least pretended they weren’t listening before, were outright staring now.

“I apologize, Aelis,” Cullen said, face very hot. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

The elf _huffed_ , tension bleeding out of his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry, that was harsh. I just--” He took a steadying breath. “I don’t like the title, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And I didn’t come over here to thank you for the watchtowers, though I do appreciate that. I wanted to apologize for avoiding you.”

Cullen would have been less shocked if the man had slapped him.

“I--what?” 

Aelis sighed.

“I’m sorry. I should have come to speak to you sooner. My clan didn’t have much love for templars, especially after Kirkwall. When we met, I just assumed--I’m sorry, it was unfair.”

Cullen blinked at him a few times, mind spinning. He couldn’t keep a single thing straight around Lavellan. 

“I can’t say I blame you,” he finally managed. “The Free Marches were a mess. The events in Kirkwall pushed me to leave the Templar Order and join the Inquisition. I apologize if I’ve made you feel...unsafe.”

Lavellan looked him over, thoughts moving across his face too fast for Cullen to decipher. 

“So...you’re no longer a templar?” he asked.

“No.”

The elf considered that a moment, surprised. 

“I didn’t know people _could_ leave the Order.” His eyebrows shot up. “Wait, does that mean you don’t--”

Cullen cut him off abruptly. 

“I would prefer not to speak of it.” The mere thought of lyrium made his skin itch and his head throb. And the last thing he needed was his men knowing how weak, how compromised, their commander was. 

Aelis stared at him with new eyes, face impossible to read. But all the tension had left him, and his hands were still at his side.

“I see. Well, uh.” The fidgeting returned. “I should get going. Rifts to close, horses to master, you know. Thank you for, um, not being an ass. I’m sorry I was.” His cheeks were red when he turned to go. As he hurried off, Cullen heard him muttering something about how Iron Bull was going to ‘kick his scrawny ass for that one’. 

The only intelligent thought Cullen could muster was that it didn’t look very scrawny to him.

\---

Somewhere between verbally accosting him and recruiting the rebel mages (as full allies, no less), Cullen’s crush on Aelis Lavellan grew significantly worse. He had inklings that he was approaching outright infatuation when he tried to argue against Aelis serving as a distraction at Redcliffe Castle, despite it and Leliana’s secret passage being a stroke of tactical genius. The thought of tossing the elven mage into a horde of Tevinter zealots made Cullen feel physically ill. On top of that, he saw how that new Tevinter mage, Dorian, stared at Aelis--it was the same way Cullen stared at him, but without any of the fear or hesitation. It made his blood hot. As Cassandra became more busy with handling the new mages, Dorian had begun joining Aelis, Varric, and Bull on their missions into the world outside the snowy village, and it made Cullen pace around his recruits like a hungry wolf. 

But it wasn’t until they were crowded into Haven’s chantry with a fucking archdemon breathing down their necks that Cullen realized he had passed “head over heels” awhile ago. Aelis should have been terrified. He should have been scrambling at the walls to escape because the monster was here for _him_. Him and his wide eyes and freckled nose and the kind, awkward smiles he now offered Cullen each time their eyes met across the War Table. 

Instead, he was perfectly calm. 

“What can I do?” he asked. His face was streaked with blood and ash, his braid a tangled halo of silver around his head. He had defied every single odd, cutting a path through the Red Templars, setting the trebuchets, and saving every townsperson he could before fortifying at the Chantry. He hardly looked injured, just weary. 

“We may be able to trigger an avalanche if we can turn the southern trebuchet towards the mountain,” Cullen said.

Aelis narrowed his eyes. “That’s suicide.”

Cullen wished he could tell him it wasn’t true. 

“This building won’t hold. It’s only a matter of time before we are overrun. We can at least choose how we die, and take as many of them as we can with us.”

Aelis shook his head. “No, there has to be another option.”

“Lavellan--”

“Wait!” The strange boy with the floppy hat appeared beside them, as if out of thin air. He was crouched next to a faintly wheezing Chancellor Rodrick. “He wants to help.”

And so the plan was set. Aelis, Bull, Cassandra, and Varric would fight their way back to the remaining trebuchet while the rest of them fled for the mountains. Their goal was two-fold: be a significant enough distraction to the templars to allow the Inquisition and refugees to escape unnoticed, and trigger an avalanche to bury the majority of the invading army. Oh, and somehow manage to survive.

They were checking over their gear and shoving potions into their belts when Cullen realized there was a very real chance he would never see Aelis again. Leliana and Josephine were already leading most of the refugees out of the back of the chantry, up to the path Rodrick had revealed. Only a few stragglers remained--those too injured to go on and the loved ones struggling to say goodbye. 

Cullen’s heartbeat roared in his ears. Before he could think it through, he was on the other side of the church, gloved hand falling softly onto Aelis’ shoulder. 

The elf started, lightning sparking across his palms on impulse. It died the moment he realized who touched him.

“Fuck, Commander, I could’ve--”

“If we are to have a chance, if _you_ are to have a chance,” Cullen said, pulse leaping in his neck, “let that thing hear you.”

Aelis swallowed, and Cullen saw real terror in his sea glass eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he did not expect to come back. Cullen didn’t know what he could possibly say, for either of them. He settled with grabbing the mage’s delicate hands, desperately trying to keep his own from shaking.

“May Mythal watch over you,” Cullen said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes on his boots. 

Aelis made a sort of choking sound, and Cullen felt his ears burn. He dropped the elf’s hands and spun on his heel, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. He was nearly out the rear exit when he looked over shoulder, imagining one last glimpse of Lavellan just before battle, glowing like a beacon in a storm.

Instead, Aelis was gaping at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He didn’t look angry or annoyed or even scared anymore. Just completely and utterly floored. 

Cullen hurried out of the Chantry, praying to whatever Gods were listening that they would send Aelis Lavellan back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Aelis' vallaslin are branches, which are dedicated to the goddess Mythal. No spoilies, but iykyk. 
> 
> woo! I really should be finishing my midterms, but here is another chapter of Idiots Falling in Love. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Even if this fic remains in the bottom of the archive, I'm gonna keep writing. I'm having so much fun. But it's always great to hear what people like, and it's encouraging. 
> 
> If a single reader is having half as much fun as I am, it's worth it.


	5. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis gives them all time to escape. 
> 
> "But we were only strangers calling in a dark room  
> Rejecting stars or cozy lives on the wall  
> In the dark I thought I saw you  
> Or was it nothing at all?"  
> \--Prosthetic Love, Typhoon

The last of the refugees with Cullen taking up the rear were nearing the tree line when he heard a terrible roar from far below. 

_The archdemon_.

Cullen peered down at the valley, heart in his throat. He saw a small figure, barely distinguishable from the snow except for his glowing green mark. Lavellan stood before a towering figure and an enormous, black dragon. It was like a Chantry Tale unfolding before him, and Cullen couldn’t look away. He kept running, but at half the speed, doing his best not to trip while still staring. 

There was a flurry of movement, the small figure dashing toward the trebuchet. Cullen was just passing the tree line when he heard the telltale whistle of it firing. 

_He actually did it._

The snow began to groan and crack, great sheets breaking off the sides of the Frostbacks. The dragon let out a terrible cry, taking flight, and he froze. Cullen knew he needed to run, to keep taking the incline at a sprint like everyone else. But his eyes were fixed on the small glowing figure far, far below. He was running, Cullen thought, maybe for cover?

But he did not get to know. A great tidal wave of snow crashed over Haven, swallowing the templars, the trebuchet, the Chantry, everything. In the blink of an eye, the valley was wiped clean.

 _Aelis_.

\---

Cullen did not sleep at all that first night. He stood like a statue at the edge of their makeshift camp, watching, waiting, hoping. 

Near the early hours of the morning, maybe 5 or 6am, a small cluster of figures appeared in the whipping snow storm. Cullen drew his sword, ready for enemies, when he made out the shape of qunari horns. Cullen ran to them, the faintest flicker of joy blooming in his chest. Maybe he was wrong, maybe-- 

He nearly toppled over Varric in his excitement. One moment, he could only see the vague impression of horns through the wall of white, the next he had an armful of dwarf. 

“ _Ouch!_ Watch it, Curly, we had a hard fight,” Varric grumbled, steadying himself. 

Cullen barely registered it, head whipping between Varric, Bull, and Cassandra. They all looked rough, faces bruised and bloody, each supporting a slight limp. 

But there were only three of them.

“Where?” 

He couldn’t even finish the question, voice thick with emotion. They all looked at him with sad eyes. 

“We could not save the Herald,” Cassandra said. “We had to make a choice. I’m sorry, Commander.” 

“When that dragon touched down, we got cut off from him,” Bull explained. “Huge-ass wall of fire.”

Varric shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it, but Freckles bought us enough time to clear the avalanche. He saved all of us.”

But not himself. 

Cullen’s knees felt like jelly, his head swimming. He just nodded, and led them back to camp on stiff legs. He ignored the concerned stares digging into his back, making a beeline to his tent, determined to not lose his head in front of the survivors. 

Leliana intercepted him right in front of the entrance, moving without making a sound. She spoke softly, only loud enough for him to hear.

“The Herald?”

“ _Aelis_ ,” he corrected, voice gruff, “diverted the monster’s attention to give his party time to escape.”

“But did he survive?” she pressed. “You were one of the last up the path. Did you see anything?”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to stave off the inevitable migraine. He scrunched his eyes shut to block out the flickering of the torches above their heads. 

“Leliana--”

She let out a soft huff of air. “I’m sorry, I’ve been thoughtless. We are all very worried about Aelis.” A gentle hand touched his wrist. “Rest. I will wake you if there is news.”

He nodded his thanks, clasping her hand with his own. It had been a horrible night for them all. Her hands were recently scrubbed clean, but he could still see the blood and ash beneath her nails. 

“Rest, Cullen,” she said. “You look terrible.”

That got him to laugh, barely. 

“I suppose you’re right. Check on Cassandra, would you? You know how stubborn she is with injuries.”

Leliana’s lips quirked upward. “Do not fear, Commander, I know how to drug a Nevarran.” 

Cullen had long ago learned to stop asking whether Leliana was joking or not--she never gave him a straight answer, and it only made him feel foolish. He shook his head tiredly before ducking into his tent. He knew he would not sleep, not truly, but it would be nice to rest his legs, nonetheless. 

\---

Leliana poked her head inside Cullen’s tent two hours later. He shot upright, on his feet before she opened her mouth.

“We need to keep moving,” she said, face grim. 

Cullen’s shoulders slumped, just a fraction.

“Yes, of course. I’ll join preparations in a moment.”

They couldn’t afford to stay put. Aelis had struck a serious blow, but enemies most certainly remained, and it was only a matter of time until they began hunting down survivors. Cullen knew how shrewd Samson could be, and he’d seen the way Red Lyrium corrupted people to their very souls. If they were found, there would be no survivors. 

Just as he had in Kinloch, and in Kirkwall, Cullen blocked out all emotion, trying to force his mind to go quiet and still. He needed to survive, to make sure everyone else survived before he poked at the growing pit in his belly. 

Within the hour, what remained of Haven was on the move. They had no goal or destination. They just needed to put as much distance as possible between them and the Red Templars. The blizzard that had swept in during the night persisted all throughout the following day. If it weren’t for the rebel mages, they most certainly would have been frozen and lost in the storm. Instead, it served to cover their tracks as they trudged through the Frostbacks. 

Despite hardly making progress, they were forced to stop at nightfall and set up camp again. The mages were exhausted, as was everyone else. This time, it was Cullen pushing Leliana to rest, promising to wake her the moment something happened. He was standing on the edge of the flickering torch light of their camp, chewing on his regrets, when he saw a shadow flickering on the hill above him. A full moon was just starting to rise, spilling bright light over the snow. 

Cullen drew his blade, turning to a scout behind him.

“Fetch Seeker Cassandra and Sister Leliana. Quickly.”

The scout nodded, hurrying off without a sound.

Cullen crept up the snowy incline, heart beating very fast. He didn’t dare hope, not now. It was probably a lion, or worse, a Red Templar. 

A familiar figure crested the rise, silver hair in loose curls around his shoulders and glowing brilliantly in the moonlight. His face was bruised and battered, pinched with pain. One arm was wrapped around his middle, the other leaning heavily on his lightning staff. Sea green eyes met gold, and the elf smiled, soft and relieved, before his knees buckled. 

“Aelis!”

Cullen sprinted toward the mage, throwing his blade to the snow. He caught him about the middle just before Aelis slumped face first into the drifts, forehead thudding against Cullen’s chest-plate. 

“Sweet Maker, please be alive,” Cullen whispered. He ripped off his gloves with his teeth, one hand fumbling for Lavellan’s neck while the other clutched him like a lifeline. The elf’s head lolled in his grip, face slack and eyes shut. His nose was bloodied and his top lip was split, but he was breathing, rough and uneven as it was. Cullen nearly wept at the strong pulse that thudded against his fingertips. 

Boots crunched in the snow a few paces behind him.

“Is it him?” Cassandra called, voice trembling. “Is it the Herald?”

Delirious with joy, Cullen pressed his lips to Aelis’ shining hair, eyes stinging.

“Lavellan lives!” he cried, voice hoarse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A CLIFFHANGER (-ish. we've all played the game). I'm trying to make a point of Cullen not referring to Aelis as the Herald, since he knows he hates it. I hope it doesn't seem too forced!
> 
> I have two potential chapters to post next--one that goes right to Skyhold, and one that lingers in the Inquisition camp with a bit more hurt/comfort and character interactions before heading to the fortress.
> 
> Which would y'all prefer? Let me know in the comments!!


	6. Let my cries touch their hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let the blade pass through the flesh,  
> Let my blood touch the ground,  
> Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."  
> -Andraste 7:12, The Chant of Light
> 
> Dorian, Solas, and Cullen patch up Aelis. Dorian and Solas see a side of Cullen they weren't expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided, eh, to hell with it, Hurt/Comfort chapter it is! So have some fluff, care, and pining, along with Solas and Dorian realizing Cullen isn't at all the templar he used to be.
> 
> This is my longest chapter yet, oops!

It felt like a dream, like the Breach had torn itself open again and they had all been hurled into the Fade. The moonlight on the snow made it as bright as day. Aelis Lavellan was alive, so small and delicate and terrifyingly powerful in Cullen’s arms. He was cold as ice, barely even shivering as Cullen pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around the elf as a makeshift blanket. He bundled Aelis as best he could before scooping the mage into his arms, one arm under his knees, the other under his back. His hair spilled over Cullen’s arms, ripping like water as him and Cassandra hurried down the hill and back to camp. Their weapons, both Cullen’s and Aelis’, along with Cullen’s gloves, were left in the snow. 

“We need to get somewhere private to treat him. Now,” Cassandra said.

The Commander nodded in agreement. The people didn’t need to know how close to death their hero may have come. Not to mention the hysteria that would seize them when they realized their hero rose again, like Andraste from her ashes. Cullen’s cloak hid most of his injuries, the great fluffy pauldrons shielding his pale face from view. 

“We can use my tent,” Cullen said, without hesitation. 

Leliana ran up to meet them as they approached the edge of camp. 

“Is he--”

“Alive,” Cullen said. 

Leliana grinned. “So the Maker smiles upon us.”

Cullen knew his cheeks were wet, but didn’t have a free hand to wipe them. Leliana and Cassandra had the good grace not to mention it, their attention fixed on the figure in his arms.

“Fetch Solas and Dorian. Have them meet us in the Commander’s tent,” Cassandra said to the Spymaster. Leliana nodded, pausing only to press a tender hand to Aelis’ head before hurrying off to find the mages. 

The camp, which had been bustling with activity, fell silent and still as they entered. Even with the cloak, they all knew the shine of the silver hair falling down Cullen’s arms. Cullen used their surprise to hurry into his tent, where Dorian and Solas were blessedly already waiting. Cassandra remained outside, both as guard and messenger. Already, Cullen could hear the whispers, fear rippling through the ranks.

“The Herald lives!” Cassandra announced. 

The crowd erupted into cheers. Some people began to weep, and he swore someone began to cry out the Chant of Light. 

“Excellent,” Dorian said, approaching Cullen and his bundle. His eyes were very bright, cheeks wet like Cullen’s were. “Put him there, would you?” Him and Solas had moved quickly, elevating Cullen’s meager bed roll to a cot and piling it high with pillows and blankets. It was still freezing inside though, only a few degrees above the frigid night air. 

Cullen lay Aelis slowly on the cot, cradling his bruised head with shameless tenderness. He carefully unwrapped his cloak from around the elf, letting the mages look at his injuries. 

They swore in tandem, one in Elvish, the other in Tevene. Already, Aelis was beginning to bruise, great masses of black and purple spanning what little they could see of his skin through the armor.

“Well, you can tell he dropped a mountain on himself,” Dorian said.

Solas turned to Cullen. “Commander, we need a fire, and quickly. Will you gather the supplies? I will do my best to warm him, but we need more.”

Lavellan groaned weakly on the bed, making Cullen’s stomach lurch. Dorian and Solas hovered over him, but they were hesitant, waiting. Their eyes were on Cullen.

“I will send the men immediately.” He turned to call for Cassandra, not moving from where Aelis lay. 

“I would prefer you saw to it personally,” Solas said, tone even and cool. Dorian’s lips were pursed. 

Cullen realized with a start that they wanted him to go. They didn’t trust him.

After all this, they still did not trust him.

Cullen’s temper, and his jealousy, flared. 

“If you have a problem with me, now is not--” Cullen began, voice shaking slightly. 

“Enough, we do not have time for this,” Dorian said, tone clipped. Something shifted on his face, a decision that Cullen could not guess at being made. Him and Solas shared a long look. “If the Templar wants to stay, he can stay. But you must understand this.” Solas made a squawking sound, but Dorian held up his hand and he fell silent. The Tevinter mage stared right into Cullen’s eyes, face deadly serious. “Aelis has terrible scars on his body from an attack in his youth. He prefers not to speak of them.”

Cullen blinked. He had no idea. In the early days, when he had stood vigil over Aelis as Solas attempted to stabilize the mark, they had never removed his clothes. Or, if they had, it was on the rare moments Cullen left to rest, eat, or relieve himself. Despite his skill with magic, Lavellan had always seemed rather innocent to Cullen. There were no scars on his pretty face, nothing in his demeanor that hinted at a dark past.

 _But what do I know?_ Cullen thought darkly. _I hardly know the man_.

“Leliana, Solas, and I are the only ones who know, and if you so much as breathe a word about seeing them, to Aelis or anyone else, I will personally see to it that you are murdered and then necromanced to serve as a jester for magisters in Tevinter. Am I clear?” 

There was no hint of humor in the mage’s voice. Solas looked as though he had swallowed a lemon, but did not speak.

Cullen nodded, jaw set in a stubborn line. 

“Very good. Now, get us some fucking fire."

\---

Cassandra had a roaring fire up so fast, Cullen wondered if she had used magic. She piled wood in the corner and gave him a respectful nod before resuming her vigil outside. It was soon toasty inside the tent, warm enough that Cullen had to strip down to his linen shirt and leather breeches to keep from sweating.

The Commander did his best to make himself useful as the mages treated Aelis, but there was little he could do besides keep the fire going and stay out of their way. He pulled up a chair by Aelis' head and helped when asked. The elf woke sluggishly, and only after Cullen and Solas coaxed a few potions down his throat and Dorian had him half out of his armor. His pupils were uneven, and he grinned drunkenly at the mages above him as he came to consciousness. 

“Am I dead?” he asked, voice slightly slurred.

“No, not yet,” Dorian said. “But if you ever scare us like that again, you will be.”

Aelis tried to laugh, which immediately devolved into pained coughs. His eyes went wide as he struggled to breathe. 

Cullen braced an arm under his back, leaning him up carefully to help him suck in air again.

The elf’s head lolled to stare at him, realizing for the first time that he was there. 

“Oh, hello,” he wheezed.

“Careful,” Cullen said, voice soft. “You broke most of your ribs.”

Dorian’s hands hovered over Aelis’ chest, glowing a gentle green as his magic knit the bones back together. Cullen kept his eyes resolutely on Lavellan’s face, determined to respect his privacy, even when he was so out of it. Just pressing his hand to Aelis’ bare back was making goosebumps course up and down his arms. He searched the handsome face for any indication of pain, but Aelis was breathing easy again, leaning heavily on Cullen’s arm. Whatever Solas had brewed seemed to be working. Aelis just kept smiling at him, heedless of his split lip.

“Worried for me, Cullen?” His tone was teasing, and Cullen felt a blush spreading across his cheeks. 

Aelis had never used his first name before. 

Dorian snorted. “I’m surprised he put you down. I don’t think anything short of another Red Templar invasion would make the Commander leave this tent.”

Cullen was blushing to his ears now. “I--”

Aelis stared at him, expression soft and smile growing wider. Cullen eased him back down on the cot before yanking his arm back, at a loss for words. 

Solas rolled his eyes. 

“Aelis has a significant concussion. It is unlikely he will remember any of this, Commander. Dorian simply likes making others squirm.”

Dorian smiled wickedly. 

Indeed, Aelis already seemed distracted, staring at the flickering shadows the fire cast on the tent flaps. 

“Now, try to hold still,” Solas commanded. “This will be quite unpleasant. I need to set your broken toes before properly healing them.”

Aelis waved an uninjured hand. “I’m sure I’ll-- _FUCK!_ ”

The potion, apparently, could only do so much. Aelis arched off the table as the other elf worked off his boots and began setting his crooked toes straight. Cullen scrambled to keep him down without hurting him, hands exceedingly gentle but still firm as he pressed the mage back onto the cot.

Solas gave him a small smile in thanks. 

“Is there a single bone you didn’t break?” Dorian griped. “I’ll need a lyrium potion at this rate.” His glowing hands were passing up and down the elf’s arms, his chest, along a goose egg at his hairline. So many hurts to set right. So many wounds he had suffered.

For them. 

“I’ll try to avoid the avalanche next time,” Aelis hissed through clenched teeth. 

“There will not be a next time,” Cullen said, voice louder than he intended. Three sets of eyes flew to him. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, bringing his hands back to his lap from Aelis’ shoulders. “I--sorry. I only meant you will never be put in such a position again. I swear it.” 

The group was silent for a moment, each staring at him like he had grown a second head. 

“Thank you,” Aelis finally managed, all the teasing gone from his voice. 

Dorian and Solas were a bit kinder to him after that. They did not call him ‘templar’ again, only ‘Cullen’ or ‘Commander’. A tentative friendliness settled over the group as they worked through the night. They spoke of small things, of home and favorite foods and old stories. Solas had many to tell from his journeys across Thedas. Aelis drifted off to sleep as Dorian wound his arms in clean bandages and Solas wove a tale of a woman turned to a bear by a jealous goddess.

Neither Dorian or Solas commented when Cullen took Aelis’ hand, and they did not try to make him leave, even when he began falling asleep in his seat at the elf’s side. 

\---

Aelis slept for the better part of a day in Cullen’s tent, only waking long enough to swallow potions. His rest was fitful; he muttered a steady stream of nonsense in Elvish and Common. But he did not spark a fever, and Dorian believed his wounds would heal quite nicely.

Another miracle. The elf seemed full of them these days.

Cullen was eventually forced to break his vigil by Solas when the Commander slid out of his chair and onto the floor while nodding off. It was close to noon at that point. 

“Rest, Commander,” Solas said, helping him to his feet. His hands were gentle. “You have done more than enough.”

Cullen started to insist that he was fine when Dorian interrupted him.

“No, you look like shit. Take my tent, and go get some sleep. It’s far finer than...this.” Dorian eyed Cullen’s sparse belongings with distaste. “Oh, and do try to argue. I would love to sic Leliana on you.”

Cullen paled. It was not an empty threat; Leliana was more devious than anyone Cullen had ever met. 

His will crumbled. “If anything changes, if he wakes, I want to know immediately.” 

As fraught as Cullen’s dreams usually were, sleep sounded incredible at the moment. He could barely see straight, he was so tired. 

“Yes, yes,” Dorian said, waving his hand dismissively. “Now, get Cassandra to escort you before you collapse and we have two patients to deal with.”

Cullen wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said, looking between the two mages. He hoped they knew how grateful he was to them for helping Aelis, for letting him stay, for looking at him with something other than anger in their eyes.

The mages both smiled, sharing a knowing glance Cullen could not read.

“Of course,” Solas said, voice very warm.

Cullen took his leave. As he ducked out of the tent, he heard Dorian whisper, so quiet he barely caught it,

“Well that was...unexpected.”

Solas chuckled. 

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's a good liar, as we all know (also, SO FUN TO WRITE). Luckily, Cullen's too wrapped up in Aelis to notice. Oh, and if anyone was wondering, the 'story' Solas is telling is a nod to the Greek myth of Callisto, the Great Bear. 
> 
> Don't worry, Cullen is gonna see his chest eventually. And Aelis will be ~very~ pleased about it.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I'm still writing, but progress is slower with midterms. Ah, college.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments are writer food :)


	7. Finding Skyhold (and ways to say thank you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis Lavellan leads the Inquisition to safety once again, and him and Cullen have their first genuine conversation without a concussion involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to zellata for beta-ing!!
> 
> me: I have homework, I shouldn't finish this chapter today
> 
> also me:

It seemed Aelis Lavellan would never grow tired of saving their lives. Two days after nearly dying at the hands of an archdemon and a would-be god, Aelis rose with little more than a fresh scar bisecting his upper lip and guided them to safety once again. How he found Skyhold, none of them knew. The fortress was enormous, pressed up against the edge of a mountain, with only one entrance that Cullen could see from their camp a half day’s walk above the castle. It was perfect--defensible, large, unknown. Not only had Aelis found them a base, though, but his sheer presence seemed to rally the troops. Before his arrival, morale had been dismal. They had lost a lot of people--whole battalions consumed in dragon fire and red lyrium, their bodies buried in snow too deep to excavate. With his return, the people found new hope. They moved with vigor with Aelis beside them, and everyone, from clerics to children to templars, wanted to speak with him. 

From the moment Lavellan could walk again to the night before their arrival at skyhold, he was busy. Whether scouting ahead, talking with villagers, gathering herbs, or hunting down their evening meals, the elf was always doing _something_ from dawn until dusk. Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana hardly saw him, save for when he came to report what lay on the path ahead. Not that the Commander, Ambassador, and Spymaster were much better off. With a destination secured, all three of them were consumed with preparations for what came next and salvaging what resources they had left after Haven. Most importantly, they also met with Cassandra to discuss who would be named Inquisitor, now that they had a formal base of operations. 

The meeting was quite short--they all knew who the right answer was.

It wasn’t until they were on Skyhold’s doorstep that the whole of the camp took a breath and rested, if only for a few hours. Whatever work remained for them would have to wait until they were inside the walls of the fortress. 

Well, most of it.

It was late, near 10 or 11pm, and Cullen was sorting through enlistment paperwork by candlelight in his tent. He was determined to figure out the names of every single soldier they lost. That _he_ lost. For the past few days, Cullen had been conducting a sort of census of the ranks, making a list of everyone who had survived. He was now comparing that list to Inquisition enlistment papers, determined to find every missing person and make sure their families were contacted. He was somewhere in the ‘H’s when a familiar shadow appeared outside the entrance of his tent. 

“Commander?” Aelis called.

Cullen dropped the papers, heart skipping a beat.

“Come in, Lavellan,” he said, trying very hard to keep his tone even. 

The elf stepped inside. It was the first time Cullen had seen him out of armor. He wore a simple cotton shirt, leather breeches, and an indigo coat made of velvet tucked around a fennec fur scarf. His days scouting the sunny tundras had not tanned his pale skin, but instead made fresh freckles bloom all over his cheeks, his arms, even his delicate hands. Varric teased him mercilessly for them at meals, but Cullen found the freckles almost painfully charming. In the candlelight of the tent, Aelis’ face looked like a map of constellations. 

“Dorian was dramatic,” Aelis said, sea green eyes inspecting Cullen’s meager belongings. “It’s not that bad in here.”

Cullen snorted. He could only imagine what the mage had said. Since their evening helping Aelis, Dorian’s demeanor towards the Commander had changed entirely. Dorian stopped by his tent frequently, sometimes to make interior decorating suggestions, sometimes just to chat while Cullen worked on tracking down their lost people. He, like Varric, had decided it was his personal responsibility to ensure Cullen spent less time with a serious expression on his face. 

Despite there being very little in his tent, Aelis was staring at everything with intense fascination, head swiveling like a bird’s. He was particularly entranced with the flicker of the candlelight on the canvas walls. His usual braid was only half up, so long waves of silver hair danced hypnotically as he turned to and fro. Cullen couldn’t help but smile as he watched.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, unable to keep the humor from his voice.

“Oh! Right. Um.” Aelis seemed determined not to meet Cullen’s eyes.

The Commander eyed him, humor quickly replaced with anxiety. Had he done something to offend him already?

“Is everything alright?” he asked, resisting the urge to fidget. 

“Yes!” Aelis said, very fast. “Creators, sorry, I’m terrible at thank you’s.” He cleared his throat, smiling almost...bashfully at Cullen. “I understand you are the one who found me in the snow and brought me back to safety. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. My memories of that night are...hazy.”

Cullen’s entire body flushed with warmth, like he was standing next to a roaring fire.

“I’m not surprised. You took quite the beating.” Cullen shifted, catching Aelis’ roaming eyes with his own. He didn’t know if it was just a sunburn or something more, but the elf’s cheeks were a rather lovely shade of pink at the moment. “And you don’t need to apologize to me. I should be saying sorry for not thanking you sooner. I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve saved us.”

The pink on Aelis’ cheeks deepened to scarlet, and the butterflies in Cullen’s stomach began to multiply and take flight.

“It was your idea to drop the mountain on them,” Aelis said. “I’m just good at being bait.” He crossed his arms over his chest, lower lip sticking out in a small pout. He’d never been so open, so expressive, around the Commander before. 

Cullen shook his head, chuckling. “Coming up with a plan is not the same as executing it. My plan was to bury us. You saved everyone.”

The arms dropped, the pout replaced with a frown. 

“I couldn’t save them all, though,” Aelis said. His eyes dropped to Cullen’s makeshift desk, arms tightening around his chest like he was trying to hug himself. “That monster wouldn’t have even been there if not for me. It’s my fau--”

“No, enough,” Cullen interrupted, pushing up from the desk. He loomed over the elf, a full head taller. 

On reflex, Lavellan took a step back, magic dancing on his palms. 

Cullen raised his hands in front of him, trying to relax his posture. He wore no armor, just a linen shirt and breeches. He had no sword, no shield. He felt incredibly vulnerable, but for the first time in awhile, he didn’t feel afraid.

The spell on Aelis’ fingertips died. The elf stared at him, half wary, half curious, 

“Lavellan. _Aelis_ ,” Cullen began, saying his name slowly, carefully, with absolute intent. “You have nearly given your life for this cause, ten times over. Please don’t--” He paused, taking a steadying breath. Emotion, fueled by exhaustion and withdrawal and the stupid, stubborn set of Aelis’ shoulders, rushed over the Commander. His hands, ever traitorous, were shaking. “I watched you fall. I saw the snow swallow you whole, and until you came stumbling over that rise, I thought you were dead. We all did. That you are standing here, blaming yourself for doing more than any of us, is a miracle.”

 _You are a miracle_.

All the fear melted from Aelis’ face. It was replaced with the same expression he had worn in the Chantry at Haven: wide-eyed and utterly aghast.

Cullen knew he should stop speaking, knew he had probably already given away far too much about his own feelings, but his mouth wouldn’t stop. 

“I will never allow the events of Haven to happen again. I promise you. You are the only person who can close Rifts. This Inquisition, this _world_ , needs you.”

Aelis was blushing from his neck to the tips of his ears now. 

“I-I hadn’t thought about it that way,” he said, voice quite small. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Please, call me Cullen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit shorter this time, but I hope you all still enjoy!!
> 
> These two need to kiss already imo.
> 
> Am I going to let them?
> 
> No, of course not, this is a SLOW BURN.


	8. Naming the Inquisitor (and starting conversations)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis Lavellan is named Inquisitor, conversations are had, and someone from Cullen's past returns to Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love layering actual scenes from the game with my own, and making the character interactions more robust and interesting. I'm playing the game (for the millionth time) as I write this to make sure the dialogue is all right!!
> 
> my life has become...very strange over the last few days. writing is a good solace and escape. 
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. I really appreciate all the comments <3

They were in Skyhold for nearly a week before Cassandra broached the subject of leading the Inquisition with Aelis. Each day, more refugees and volunteers arrived, and their lack of leadership was becoming more obvious. They wanted to give the elf time to adjust, to rest, but it was past time to declare Inquisitor. Josephine had insisted on a small celebration, even with what little supplies they had. It was Cullen’s job to inform the people, to see what they thought--not a single one opposed. Leliana located the ceremonial sword. Cullen and Josephine gathered the people in the main courtyard around noon. The crowd was buzzing with excitement. No one doubted Lavellan would say yes. He hadn’t backed down from a challenge yet. 

Cassandra, Aelis, and Leliana stood on a small landing above them. From his position below, Cullen could see the way Aelis’ eyes went wide as dinner plates when Cassandra told him. He gaped at the sword Leliana offered, longer than he was tall, with shock, as if he couldn’t believe they would offer it to him.

 _Maker bless him,_ Cullen thought, _who else would it be?_

Despite the confusion, though, Aelis took the blade, and held it high.

The roar from the crowd was deafening. Cullen’s cheer was one of the loudest amongst them.

\---

  
  


A few hours after the ceremony, Aelis came to find him. It was early evening, and Cullen was working in the courtyard, barking orders at his soldiers. He leaned over a makeshift desk, surrounded in reports. Lavellan came hopping down the courtyard steps two at a time, smiling. He wore the same outfit he had in the tent the night before they arrived--white shirt, black pants, and a long velvet coat with a fur scarf. When he spoke, his voice was playful, his eyes bright. 

“Do you ever sleep?”

“I’ll get to it eventually,” Cullen said, abandoning the ‘grumpy commander’ persona the moment the elf came bounding to a stop in front of him. Since Haven, Aelis had taken to wearing his hair down, letting it fall to his chest in long, wavy sheets. It looked lovely in the evening light, caught between gold and silver. “Skyhold is strong, but it still needs a lot of work before I feel confident about it in an assault. Progress is steady--we have barracks and guard rotations, and we’ll soon have supplies to begin repairs on the main hall.”

“That’s impressive!” Aelis said, tone not all joking.

Cullen tried to hide his blush by pretending to peer at a paper listing guard assignments. 

“Thank you, though I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit. Since you accepted the role of Inquisitor, morale has improved significantly. Haven was trying for everyone, but the men feel much safer here, with you as their leader.” He glanced at the elf, wondering how he felt about the new title. 

He looked rather embarrassed. Cullen couldn’t help a small smile at that. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Aelis said, like he was seeing how it felt in his mouth. “It sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

Cullen set the report he hadn’t been inspecting anyway back down.

“Not at all.”

Aelis raised an eyebrow. “Is that the official response?”

Cullen laughed and stepped away from the table, towards Lavellan. Instead of stepping back, as he had last time, Aelis just peered up at him, expression dubious, lower lip barely sticking out. He had a remarkable ability to pout, Cullen was beginning to realize.

“I suppose it is,” Cullen replied, smiling in earnest now. “But it’s the truth. We needed a leader, and you have more than proven yourself.”

The pout smoothed into a bashful smile. 

“Thank you, Cullen.”

There was that feeling again, like he was being bathed in warmth, like the sun had come bursting out of the clouds. The last time Aelis had spoken his first name, he was half delirious and high on potions. This time his eyes were bright and focused and looking right into his own.

“You have a knack for pep talks. Is that part of being a commander?” Aelis asked. 

_Not at all, I just happen to think you’re miraculous._

His men answered for him, snorting derisively behind his back. 

Cullen turned to glare at them, but they had already scattered, hopefully off to do whatever tasks he had assigned them and not to gossip. 

When he turned back, Aelis was stifling a laugh.

“I’ll take that as a no. Was it like this in Kirkwall?”

The Commander blinked a few times. Aelis had never stopped by like this before, just to chat. He spoke to him now in war table meetings, asking for troop updates and reports on the missing. But nothing ever so personal or casual. 

“Uh, no, it was not,” Cullen said. “It was worse in many ways, better in others. At least here we don’t have to deal with serial killers or slavers snatching the poor off the streets. But there were far fewer demons and dragons in Kirkwall.”

Aelis’ eyes lit up. “Didn’t Hawke fight a dragon? Varric was telling me about that once.”

Cullen chuckled, ignoring the way his stomach did a nervous flip at the mention of the Champion. “I’m sure Varric’s tales of Kirkwall would pale in comparison to anything I could tell you.”

Aelis shrugged. “Maybe I just like listening to you talk.”

Cullen’s mouth went dry. 

The elf was smiling slyly.

Was...Aelis flirting with him?

“But I should go, I promised Bull I would meet him this evening. He wants to show me something, apparently. He was unusually cryptic.” Aelis turned to go, still grinning in a way that made Cullen’s heart do a tap dance in his chest. 

“Ah, before you leave,” Cullen said, a different sly grin flashing across his mind. “Did you get a chance to speak to Varric? About that friend of his?”

Aelis froze. “Shit! I forgot about that. Will you tell Bull I’ll see him tomorrow? I should go find Varric.”

“Of course.” The nervous flip in his stomach from before returned. 

“Thanks!” 

Aelis took off at a run towards the ramparts, and Cullen stared after him, fighting off the urge to search the walls for wild black hair. 

What had Leliana said before, in the main hall?

_If Varric brought who I think he did, Cassandra is going to kill him._

  
  


\---

  
  


It had only been an hour, maybe an hour and a half, since Aelis had run to see the dwarf on the ramparts, and Cullen was checking in on Master Dennet at the stables. The sun was still up, though only barely. Cullen had brought a torch with him, knowing night would fall before he could make it to his new office and living quarters. Throughout the day, his men had slowly been moving his belongings into the space. His office windows oversaw the main bridge into Skyhold, so he could see everyone coming and going. There were sturdy bookshelves built into the stone walls, and a bedroom above that he could reach by ladder. With the exception of the hole in the ceiling, Cullen thought it was perfect.

He and Master Dennet were chatting about finding more exotic mounts, like harts or dracolisks, when the yelling began. It was Cassandra, shouting from her quarters so loud she could be heard from the other side of Skyhold. A hush fell over the fortress, everyone straining to hear. All Cullen could make out was ‘ _you little shit!_ ’ before a small, silver-headed figure went dashing inside, and everyone returned to their business, pretending they hadn’t been listening. 

“Sounds like the Seeker is going for blood, eh?” Dennet said, chuckling. “What’d you think the dwarf did this time?”

Cullen swallowed. From his new windows, just minutes before, the Commander had seen a familiar black head leaving Skyhold on a white horse. He wore the same armor he had that last day in Kirkwall, blood splattered staff strapped to his back. Whatever remaining vestiges of Cullen’s heterosexuality went flying out the window as he had stared at Hawke’s strapping form leaving Skyhold, wishing the man would turn and leer at him, as he used to. 

“Same as always. He lied to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Varric, you sweet dwarf. You're lucky Cassandra didn't kill you. 
> 
> I would have hid Hawke too, though.


	9. Chess (conversational and literal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen settles into Skyhold, makes some friends, and works up the courage to ask Dorian a question that's been bothering him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got extensions on my midterms because of some family health emergencies (all is well, shit just sucks), and writing is one of my few joys right now, so here! another chapter! 
> 
> I kept thinking about Cullen's comment to the Inquisitor when they flirt with him after Haven in the game, where he says "I'm afraid I made few friends in Kirkwall". Like....honey.....you were there for years.....what in the name of trauma....
> 
> So Cullen gets friends now :D
> 
> (s/o to zellata again for beta-ing!!)

Since settling in at Skyhold, Cullen’s life took on a loose routine. He woke most mornings exhausted, but it wasn’t as bad as it was in Haven. The morning sun streamed through the hole in his ceiling, warming his sheets and face as he blinked into consciousness each day. It was wonderful, until the headaches returned, much worse than before. It felt like dwarves were trying to dig lyrium out of his brain, battering their hammers against his skull. After noticing the way Cullen pinched his nose and snipped at trainees in the morning light, Solas began dropping off a small draft when Cullen ate breakfast over reports in his office. They were only a bridge apart, after all. The elf never asked any questions. Just made a comment about the weather, or that he himself had a slight headache that morning. Apparently, it was a common consequence of his walks in the Fade. The drafts could not solve the pain, not entirely, but they made the world less sharp, less loud. Cullen was eternally grateful for them and made sure that every request Solas put in for paint or books was swiftly met. 

In the afternoons, they had War Council meetings--him, Josephine, and Leliana. The Inquisitor made it when he could; he left the morning after his conversation with Hawke for Crestwood to find a Warden with Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Varric in tow. By some otherworldly power (unrelated to his glowing hand), Aelis had brokered a tentative peace between the dwarf and the Seeker. When Cullen asked him about it over Council just before he left, all the elf had said was: “They both had their reasons. I reminded them of that, and the bigger picture.”

In the late afternoon, if Council didn’t go too long, Cullen and Dorian had taken to playing chess in Skyhold’s garden. There was a lovely marble rotunda and all sorts of rare plants Aelis had started to grow. Cullen was particularly fascinated by Royal Elfroot--he liked how the ears went from green to blue at the end. It reminded him of Aelis’ eyes.

The longer Lavellan was away, the more frequent their games grew, until they were managing two or three a week by the time he had been gone nearly a month. The games were a welcome relief from the doldrum of paperwork and the way time seemed to move agonizingly slow when Aelis wasn’t in the keep. The men had gotten to know each other quite well in that time, talking frequently of their families, their homes, their favorite seasons, anything and nothing at all. Cullen learned Dorian was estranged from his family, that he loved sweet wine, and that he had no interest in the Inquisitor as anything but a friend. In fact, Dorian had been eyeing the Iron Bull as of late. It was only this newfound trust and, dare he say it, _friendship,_ that Cullen felt comfortable posing a question to Dorian on one particularly temperate afternoon. 

The _altus_ (as Cullen learned he was called in Tevinter) could see the question on his face from the moment they sat down. He didn’t press, just gazed at Cullen rather expectantly. Dorian always seemed to know when something was on his mind, and Cullen swore he could read his thoughts when they spoke of Aelis. 

They were halfway to Cullen calling checkmate before he felt brave enough to speak.

“Dorian, what do you know about...attraction?”

The mage grinned. “My dear commander, I thought you’d never ask.”

 _Of course_.

Cullen fought to keep his composure, moving a knight to take Dorian’s bishop. 

“Let’s say you’ve always been a morning person,” Cullen began. 

Dorian laughed, loudly, earning the glares of a few Chanty sisters across the yard. Cullen glanced at them nervously, eyes leaving the board.

“Oh, is that how we’re doing this?” Dorian asked, drawing Cullen’s attention back to the game. He had taken Cullen’s knight in a surprise move.

Cullen frowned.

“You do look rather sad when you pout,” Dorian mused. “Fine, carry on with your long-winded metaphor. But you have to ignore my cheating this time if you do.”

“Well, you always cheat, so it won’t make much of a difference.” Cullen shifted in his seat. “But as I was saying, let’s say you were always a morning person, but one day--” Cullen paused, eyebrows knitting as he stared at the board. By taking his knight, Dorian had undone his entire strategy. 

The man was grinning, twirling his mustache around his index finger like a cheesy villain in one of Varric’s serials. 

Cullen sat back from the table, frown deepening.

“Fine, you are a dirty, filthy cheat and what does it mean if you suddenly find yourself caring for a man despite usually only liking women?”

It was as though Yule came early, the way Dorian was grinning at him. 

“If you’re speaking of Aelis, I would say you are a human being with eyes. I think half of Skyhold cares for him.”

Cullen ignored the way his stomach twisted itself into knots at that thought.

“But what if he wasn’t the only one?” Cullen asked. Neither men were playing anymore, just peering intently at each other. 

“As in not the only man you’ve had feelings for?”

Cullen nodded.

Dorian shrugged, still smiling. “It means you are like everyone else--you have tastes and preferences. Many prefer more than one gender. Look at the Bull.”

Cullen shook his head. “But it’s not like Bull. It is only rarely men. Specifically, only two.”

Dorian leaned towards him, grin unwavering. “As I said, tastes and preferences. Attraction, love--these things don’t always make sense or mean anything. They just...are. And it doesn’t have to be an exact division to mean you are attracted to more than one gender, you know. It is more like a stream than a stone.”

Cullen considered that for a moment. 

“Do you have...preferences, then?” he asked, looking at Dorian. 

“Did you not already know? I suppose it’s not as big of a deal here as it is back home. I prefer the company of men. Exclusively men. It is why I do not speak to my family. They disapprove, you see.”

“I’m sorry, Dorian,” Cullen said. 

The mage shrugged. “It is what it is. But this isn’t about me, unfortunately. If who you sleep with doesn’t matter so much in Ferelden, as I’m told, why do you seem so concerned?”

Cullen cleared his throat, embarrassed. “My parents were particularly devout. They wouldn’t approve.”

Dorian’s expression softened. 

“But haven’t your parents been dead for over ten years? Lost in the Blight?”

The Commander sighed, knowing he had been out-maneuvered. He both cursed and blessed Dorian for knowing exactly how to play him.

“Well, yes. It’s not entirely them.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

“I just--He’s the Inquisitor, and I’m his general, and--”

“And,” Dorian said, cutting him off, “of all the many pretty faces in this fortress, yours in the only one he stares after.”

Cullen slumped back against his chair, train of thought grinding to a violent halt.

“ _What?_ ”

Dorian snorted. It was the most unattractive thing he had ever done in front of the Commander. “You are absolutely hopeless.”

Cullen couldn’t even summon the will to be angry at the comment. His mind spun, stomach doing somersaults. 

“But what do I know?” Dorian said, smile going crooked. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Cullen felt a bit faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "stream vs a stone" comment is me trying to reference the fluidity of sexuality without relying on modern gender theory LMAO.
> 
> But I hope everyone enjoyed Cullen getting a wholesome lesson from Dorian about being bisexual. Sorry it was a bit shorter today. 
> 
> next chapter, Cullen is gonna have some...confessions for Aelis...
> 
> Stay tuned!!! Thank you all so much for bearing with me.


	10. Confessions of a Former Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis returns, and Cullen knows he has to come clean.

Cullen knew he had to tell Aelis about the lyrium. Even if the elf had nearly guessed it himself back at Haven, few outside the Order truly understood what it meant. It was Cullen’s duty, as Commander of the Inquisitions forces, to inform the Inquisitor about any potential risks in his organization. 

Even if one of those risks happened to be Cullen.

 _Especially_ since one of those risks happened to be Cullen. 

And despite Dorian’s insinuations (which sounded completely mad to him), he couldn’t begin to think about confessing his feelings without confessing this first. 

Cullen watched Aelis return two hours after dawn from his office window, heart in his throat. He had been gone almost a month. Leliana’s agents had relayed his many accomplishments and discoveries in Crestwood; sealed rifts, a drained lake, enough obsidian to outfit a small army with weapons, a guilty mayor, and most troubling of all, news of the Wardens too sensitive to be passed by bird. All they knew was that Hawke’s Warden friend rode with the Inquisitor, and he was in significant danger. Hawke had not come back with them, and for that, the Commander was grateful.

Cullen suspected who accompanied Aelis when he heard reports of a ‘wily warden with a smart mouth who knew Hawke’, but it was still startling to see Sir Alistair riding into Skyhold alongside Aelis. He hadn’t seen the man in ten years. Not since the fall of the Ferelden Circle. Leliana had likely heard stories, but Alistair had _been there_. Him and Surana had found Cullen in that damn barrier, half dead and more than half mad. He still saw Alistair’s face in his nightmares sometimes, staring at him like Cullen was a mad dog who needed to be put down. Despite the years, Alistair scarcely looked different. 

The Commander backed away from the window and moved toward his office door, only pausing long enough to down the potion Solas had left him that morning. His migraine was near blinding, and it had brought friends. Pain stretched from Cullen’s temples to his toes. That morning marked six months since his last draft of lyrium. He wanted to be proud; it was a victory hard won. But the muscle and joint pain had arrived in earnest now, as he feared they would. The first few months were just migraines and mood swings, but he supposed his body was truly on the last reserves of its stored lyrium, so the real withdrawal was going to begin. Cassandra had warned him this would be the worst part, that it would get worse before it got better, but Cullen hadn’t known how bad it would be.

His armor, which he had taken to wearing all around Skyhold despite the security, weighed heavily on his shoulders as he made his way to the small training area. On bad mornings, when he woke screaming or worse, he liked to head to the training yard before his men arrived to work out the lingering terror. Usually, he was heading there at a half run, heart hammering. Today, he hobbled. Cullen felt ancient, his knees groaning as he descended the stairs into the courtyard. 

As usual, it was empty at this hour. Cassandra was usually the only other person who rose at the same hours he did, but since her and Aelis had likely rode all night to arrive back at Skyhold, she wouldn’t be taking up her usual spot by the dummies for hours yet. Cullen was glad; it meant that neither she nor anyone else would see his fumblings as he tried to work the ache from his bones. He was determined to work through this difficult period as he had every other in his life--by brute force and sheer willpower. 

So, he ignored the way his wrists cried out when he grabbed a sword and shield. He ignored the cruel, hot press of his knuckles against his gloves. Most of all he ignored how his body was coated in a layer of sweat, despite the frigid morning air that steamed his breath. 

Cullen swung the training sword in a wide arc, trying to warm up his failing muscles. But his back just spasmed and he couldn’t help a soft cry as pain lit up his spine. He swore in a way that would have made his 19-year-old self blush and tossed the weighty shield aside, rolling his shoulders. He would not yield, not to something as small as his own body. If he had survived all this time, through Kinloch and Kirkwall and Haven, he would survive this. 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter.”

Cullen began reciting the Chant of Light without even thinking. It always came to him in times of great need, some piece of his childhood and templar training buried too deep in his brain to ever shake. The words were like a balm for his soul, quieting the small, scared parts of him that wanted to run away and give up. It let him separate himself from his aching body, grit his teeth, and swing the sword again. 

He made a long, clean cut on the torso of the straw dummy in front of him. He nearly fell over doing it, but he was proud, nonetheless.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” Cassandra finished. Cullen jumped, dropping the sword and spinning around. She was right behind him, carrying her shield and looking as terrible as he felt--bruised, muddy, splattered in gore, with deep, purple bags beneath her eyes. 

“Seeker,” he said in greeting. “I thought you had already retired. Welcome back.” He tried very hard not to feel horrifically embarrassed at being caught so weak, so vulnerable. Cassandra knew everything, anyway.

She just huffed, kicking a particularly thick clump of mud off her shield. “The Inquisitor wished us all to visit the healers before we retired. He saw to it himself.”

Cassandra sounded annoyed, but it made Cullen smile for the first time since waking up. Kind, stubborn, Aelis. He would ride all night without stopping to reach Skyhold, but he wouldn’t dare let anyone’s injuries go untreated. Before, as an agent of the Inquisition, Aelis could only suggest his companions take care of themselves. Now, as Inquisitor, he could demand it. 

“And is he--?”

She didn’t let him finish the sentence. “Fine. Though he tried very hard not to be. I have never known a mage to throw himself into the thick of battle as he does.”

Cullen’s eyes went wide.

“He does _what_?”

Cassandra was smiling, just barely. 

“He drinks more potions than any of us. We will need a small field of elfroot at this rate. He needs more training before we take on another army of undead.”

Cullen’s head spun and it had nothing to do with the withdrawal. Had he not made it clear to Aelis how important he was? What was he thinking, throwing himself so willfully into danger?

The Commander swallowed. 

“I will speak to Josephine about contacting some specialists on the Inquisitor’s behalf,” he managed, trying very hard to sound neutral. 

Cassandra nodded her thanks. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wash the corpse brain from my hair,” she said, nose wrinkling in disgust. But before she moved passed him, the Seeker paused, searching his face. Her obsidian eyes softened, just barely. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Cullen’s shoulders slumped. He’d always been terrible at schooling his expressions. Varric told him it’s why he always lost at Wicked Grace when they played. 

“Yes. Today marks six months.”

“Congratulations, Cullen,” she said, earnestly. “It is an important milestone. You will get better.”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “But first I will get much worse.” 

\---

War Council was postponed until the evening so that Aelis could rest before filling them in about Crestwood, and Cullen found himself with an abundance of time. First, he tried sorting through the messages that had built up on his desk. Anything non-essential went into a pile on the left corner, and it had been steadily building over the month Aelis was away. It was close to teetering over now that he had returned. Many of the messages were small notes from that strange boy the Inquisitor had brought in, Cole. They were written in a very small, careful scrawl. The first one read: “ _They didn’t hang you there, you can walk away_.”

Cullen decided he no longer wished to go through his messages, and instead shoved the pile under his desk to be dealt with when he felt less like he was about to shatter to pieces. 

Next, he tried searching for information on Samson and red lyrium. His library was well stocked now, all his book orders from Val Royeaux swiftly met. Leliana had a small legion of agents scouring Thedas for information, but Cullen couldn’t just sit around and wait. Not when he knew Samson, not when he had helped him in Kirkwall. 

Another sin to repent for.

But he found very little he did not already know, and as the hours wore on, morning fading into afternoon, his headache grew worse. It grew in size and in fury, a terrible ache and itch and burn all at once, and soon all Cullen could think about was the horrific pain blooming behind his eyes. Before he realized it, he was slumped over his desk, one hand over his eyes, the other white knuckling his dusty philter box. 

Six months, and for what? To hobble around like an old man, his brain leaking out his ears? What did he have to show for all this except a pathetic sword arm and the inability to read or do a damn thing without wanting to tear his hair out?

A knock on his front office door startled the Commander out of his downward spiral. 

“Cullen? Are you in there?”

_Aelis._

Cullen shot up straight, running an anxious hand through his hair. 

“Yes! Come in, Inquisitor.”

The old oak door creaked open, spilling mid-afternoon sunlight into his office. Aelis stood in the doorway, grinning widely. 

“It’s good to see you,” he said, green-blue eyes bright. “I came by this morning, when I returned, but you were out.”

For the first time since had woken up, Cullen stopped thinking about his aching body.

“It is nice to see you as well. I apologize, I was training this morning,” Cullen said, savoring the last few moments of casualness between them. He wished he could just chat with Aelis, maybe invite him for a game of chess. But Cullen knew what he needed to do.

Something, as always, must have shown on his face.

“Is everything alright?” Aelis asked, his smile fading.

“I just--as leader of the Inquisition, there is something I must tell you.” 

“Whatever you need to tell me, I’m here to listen.” The smile was gone now, and Aelis had a stubborn set to his shoulders, but his eyes were exceedingly kind. 

Warmth swept over him. 

“Thank you.” Cullen took a deep breath. “Lyrium grants templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those who are cut off suffer. Some go mad, others die. We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for our templars here but I...no longer take it.”

Aelis studied him. “I thought as much when you said you left the Order. I didn’t know the cost.”

“Few outside the order do.”

“How much suffering are we talking about here?” Aelis pressed.

The Commander sighed. “Nothing I cannot endure.”

There was that pout again--Aelis frowned, his lower lip just barely sticking out.

“Cullen, if this can kill you--”

He couldn’t bear to let the mage finish, not when his voice was so soft, so gentle. “It hasn’t yet. It’s been months now. After Kirkwall I couldn’t--I will not be bound to the Order or that life any longer.” Cullen squared his shoulders, determined not to look afraid, despite how he felt. “Whatever the suffering, I accept it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I’ve asked Cassandra to...watch me. If my ability to lead becomes compromised, I will be relieved of duty.”

The pout didn’t shift.

“Are you in pain?”

Cullen felt his tough exterior crumbling.

_More than I can say._

“I can endure it.”

Aelis’ hands twitched at his side, thoughts flying across his pretty face. The pout was gone, but there was a stretch of silence as he thought, and Cullen’s headache began creeping back in, along with his doubts. Could Aelis see how afraid Cullen was? Could he see the way his forehead was beaded with sweat, the fine tremble in his hands?

“Thank you for telling me,” Aelis finally said. “I respect what you’re doing. And you. Immensely.”

Cullen blinked. He had been expecting fear, anger, even disgust. 

But this? 

Affection, understanding, respect?

“Thank you, Aelis,” was all he could manage, throat thick with emotion.

The elf gave him a smile as warm as sunshine. “I’m calling an early council. Too much to report. Walk with me?”

Cullen stared at him.

“That’s all?”

Aelis shrugged.

“I trust Cassandra. I trust you. So... walk with me?”

Cullen couldn’t help but smile. 

“I would be honored.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: the notes from Cole are a real thing in game! This is the first one Cullen receives, and it won't be the last I show in this fic. 
> 
> Second: this chapter was really personal and emotional for me to write, both because I've seen withdrawal up close and because I myself live with chronic pain. I can identify with a lot of what Cullen is going through, and I think it's why I'm so drawn to him as a character and romance option. Also, he is adorkable. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed! I really appreciate the comments and kudos. 
> 
> Stay tuned! I promise they'll kiss.
> 
> Eventually.


	11. Chess (but with more feelings this time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis decides to stay in Skyhold for a bit, and Cullen finally gets to spend some quality time with him.

News about Corypheus controlling the Wardens was incredibly troubling to all of them, but Leliana most of all. Cullen had never seen her tough exterior crack before. She had to excuse herself early from the War Council, eyes very bright and hands curled into fists at her side. 

“I must go speak with Alistair,” was all she said before hurrying out of the chamber. 

In regards to that news, and still lacking an invitation to Halamshiral, the Inquisitor elected to stay in Skyhold for the time being. He wanted to work on requisitions, building better armor, improving the stronghold, and (much to Cullen’s relief) specialized training. Instead of being insulted, Aelis was enthusiastic to learn new magic, and agreed he wanted to be better prepared before going against Grey Wardens and Venatori mages. 

With Lavellan in the keep, everything felt a bit brighter. War Council meetings became quick chats instead of lengthy discussions. Meals were filled with laughter, the bard at the tavern sang louder, and Cullen’s morning migraines faded to mild headaches as Aelis became a frequent face in his morning drills. The elf wanted to train like everyone else did, and he seemed eager to show Cullen all the new spells he had mastered. When the subject of specializations came up, Solas, Vivienne, and Dorian offered to contact teachers of their relative disciplines, and while Aelis tried his hand at each, he was clearly taken with Rift Magic. He would call the Commander’s attention frequently to see its effects, grinning ear to ear as he flung recruits across the yard with Stonefist and broke whole phalanxes with tiny rifts he could pull out of thin air. It was good practice for the soldiers but, more importantly, it did the Commander’s heart good to see the elf laughing and smiling and growing stronger each day. Instead of pinching his nose and snipping, Cullen now spent his mornings smiling fondly. The soldiers, despite getting rather battered by the Inquisitor, appreciated his presence, and Cullen’s improved moods. 

In this time, which stretched to nearly a month, Dorian and Cullen had time to play chess almost every day. Sometimes Varric joined them, either to observe and make bets or to bully them into a game of Wicked Grace. Usually, though, it was just him and Dorian and the Chantry sisters until the sun got low in the sky. One of the first improvements Aelis made was to expand Skyhold’s gardens, and he had begun growing both rare and common herbs. His favorites seemed to be Crystal Grace and Elfroot--they occupied almost every pot in the small garden. On the day the bright blue flowers of the Crystal Grace bloomed, Aelis dropped in on one of their chess games. 

Cullen had been snarking at Dorian (much to the mage’s shock and awe) about his inevitable victory when Aelis appeared beside them.

“Inquisitor!”

Cullen shot up from the table, nearly knocking it over in his surprise. 

Dorian grinned wickedly.

“Leaving, are you? Does this mean I win?”

Cullen glared at him.

Aelis settled on the floor between them, cross-legged. His lap was full of flowers and herbs. 

“Please!” he said. “Don’t stop on my account.” 

It was mid-afternoon, and a particularly warm day in Skyhold. Aelis wore a thin cotton shirt, a scarf, and his usual leather breeches, but no coat, no armor. His pale shoulders were dotted with freckles and as he bent over the pile of plants in his lap, Cullen could see the beginnings of a jagged white scar just below the elf’s neckline. 

The Commander promptly sat back down, heart beating very fast. He determinedly turned his head back to the game.

“Dorian, move those pieces back where they were or so help me--”

\---

Despite Dorian’s flagrant attempts to cheat and the distraction of Aelis braiding flower crowns next to him ( _Maker_ , the curve of his neck), Cullen managed to win. Dorian huffed dramatically when they called checkmate. 

“Don’t get smug,” the Tevinter said, pushing up from the table. “Or there will be no living with you. If you’ll excuse me, I have a...meeting with the Bull.” He winked at Cullen before sauntering out of the garden. 

Cullen knew he was blushing, and Dorian had known it too, but his victory made him feel bold.

“I should return to my duties...unless you’d like a game?” He glanced at Aelis. 

The elf looked up at him, crown of crystal grace and elfroot on his silver head. Cullen usually had no eye for such things, but he thought the colors were particularly lovely with Aelis’ eyes. At the realization the invitation was for him, the elf grinned.

He hopped up, taking Dorian’s seat, crown teetering as he settled. 

“Set the board, Cullen,” he said, folding his legs beneath him again, despite sitting in a chair. “But go easy on me, I don’t often get to play.”

Cullen knew he was still blushing, but Aelis either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He just kept smiling at the Commander, _vallaslin_ dancing on his sharp cheekbones. 

“So long as you don’t cheat like Dorian, you stand a fair chance. I’ve seen how you fight.”

Aelis laughed, and Cullen felt that familiar flush of warmth run over his body. 

“Cassandra says I fight like a rabid dog. I’d hardly say I’m a tactician. Do you play chess often?”

“I do, actually. I grew up playing with my older sister, Mia, though she _always_ won. My brother and I used to practice for hours to try and beat her, but it never worked. She’s wickedly clever.”

Cullen didn’t mean to talk so much at once, but being around Aelis just...did that to him. He had never wanted to speak to someone so badly before. Dorian and Varric spent long hours joking and cajoling and questioning him, slowly working their way through his armor. But Aelis drew words from his as a well draws water, and the ease with which he could do it frightened Cullen sometimes. 

“You have siblings?” Aelis seemed delighted with the information, smile growing.

“Two sisters and one brother. They moved to South Reach after the Blight, when we lost our parents. I do not write to them as often as I should.” Cullen paused, trying to consider his next move but getting too distracted by the way the late afternoon light lit up the splash of freckles along Aelis’ cheeks. “Do you have any family?”

The elf nodded, silver strands falling into his sea green eyes and _Maker’s Breath_ , Cullen was going to lose badly if this kept up. He moved a pawn without even glancing at the board. 

“One sister and my mother. Mother is first in our Clan, and my sister Aylin is a Hunter, like I was. I don’t write to them enough, either. I thought Aylin was going to ride here herself and kill me when she found out from a _bard_ that I survived Haven.” 

Aelis moved to capture a bishop Cullen had left wide open.

At first, their talk was small--where they were born, games they’d played in youth, their favorite parts of Thedas. Cullen still held love for his little home of Honnleath, while Aelis confessed a fixation on the Emerald Graves, despite their dark history. 

“The land echoes with loss, but I’ve never been somewhere so alive,” he explained, eyes far away as he imagined it. 

The longer they spoke, the more comfortable they became. Cullen learned Aelis chewed his lower lip when he thought, that he liked riding at night both because he loved staring at the stars and because he believed them to be the only true compass, and that he dreamed of owning a red hart since he was a small child. Cullen confessed his favorite time of day was dawn because he liked to watch the sun break through the clouds, that he loved to read recipes he would never attempt because he found something peaceful in the concise directions, and that he had never actually seen a dragon but always wanted to.

Cullen Rutherford played what was perhaps his worst game of chess, ever. But he couldn’t bring himself to care because he made Aelis laugh. He especially didn’t care because despite Aelis winning easily, the game lasted twice as long as it needed to, the two men too caught up in each other to pay much attention to the chess board. 

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition or related matters,” Cullen said as he cleared the pieces from the board. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction." 

A small hand, rough with callouses and warm with sunshine, touched his own and Cullen glanced up, startled. 

“We should spend more time together,” Aelis said, looking right into his eyes. 

His heart skipped a few beats.

“I-I would like that,” Cullen managed.

Aelis grinned, cheeks going pink.

“As would I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am only 25% embarrassed that I actually flailed while writing this. I watched the chess scene like...four times in a row to do this, and I tried each outcome (cheat, play fair, let him win). And unless you outright let him win, the Inquisitor always wins, which makes me think that Cullen is a bit *ahem* distracted during this scene. 
> 
> Also, gotta say, finding a reason for these scenes to happen other than the PC just walking up and triggering them? Takes some thinking!
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying these stupid idiots in love. I know I am.


	12. Flower Crowns and Nights in the Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelis can't seem to let Cullen out of his sight. Cullen doesn't mind in the slightest.
> 
> They can almost forget the world is ending.
> 
> Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO I did classes and advisor meetings all day and still got a chapter edited and ready. This is absolutely one of my most self indulgent chapters yet, but also I think it's disgustingly cute and still pretty damn in character. 
> 
> Aelis is a shameless flirt who just wishes Cullen would catch on already. 
> 
> Enjoy~!

Time together would come sooner than Cullen expected. He was about to excuse himself, the chess board packed away, when Aelis invited him to dinner in the main hall. The Commander rarely ate with the others; he only stopped by long enough to collect a meal before heading to his office. Since withdrawal had gotten particularly nasty, however, his appetite had been getting worse and more often than not he skipped dinner altogether. A spike of anxiety shot through him--he had come to know many of the Inquisitor’s companions individually but he had never shared a space with them, not altogether. 

But how could he say no to Aelis, when he smiled at Cullen like that?

So they ate at a large table with Varric, Bull, Dorian, and Sera. Cullen and Aelis sat across from each other, knees brushing under the table, laughing at Varric’s tall tales of Kirkwall. That evening, he spun a rather spectacular story about him and Hawke fighting a dragon in the Deep Roads. For the first time, tales of the Champion didn’t make Cullen’s brain stop cold or his heart pound out of his chest. He was too busy grinning at Aelis, who was attempting to balance a soup spoon on his nose during the tale. Cullen ate a whole meal without even thinking about his withdrawal or the leering grins of Garrett Hawke, too caught up in the way Aelis’ ankles brushed his beneath the table to think about much else. 

After dinner, Cullen fully expected to leave for bed, sure Aelis would not want to spend more time together, not yet. But the elf seemed reluctant to let him out of his sight. 

“Join us for drinks?” he asked, sea green eyes searching Cullen’s face. He still wore his crown of crystal grace and elfroot. His face was hypnotizing in the flickering torch light of the hall, square jaw and sharp cheeks but slender neck and full, soft lips. 

“C’mon, Curly, I’ve got a game not even you can lose at,” Varric said. They all looked at him, gazes hopeful.

Cullen blinked, surprised.

“Um, sure.”

Smiles broke out across the table, and Cullen wondered what he was getting himself into. 

\---

The tavern was loud and bustling with activity after dinner. Maryden the Bard sung sweetly by the fireplace, and the counter by the bar was soaked in spilled ale. Varric hadn’t even dealt the cards for the game before Sera excused herself to chat with Scout Harding across the Tavern, practically bouncing as she went.

  
“Figures,” Varric said, unfazed. This was apparently quite normal for them. 

The five men gathered around a small table in the corner, Dorian fetched a round of drinks, and the game began. It was rather complicated, involving an entire deck of cards spread around a central cup and rules Varric seemed to make up on the fly. The four of them, Varric, Dorian, Bull, and Aelis, played it frequently on the road, but Cullen had never heard of it. Despite Varric’s assurance, the Commander was fairly sure he was losing, given how empty his cup had become after just one round. 

While he was usually a bit of a sore loser, Cullen couldn’t bring himself to care, because he was pressed up against Aelis, touching from shoulder to hip, and the mage had placed the flower crown on his head. The table was small, and with Bull taking up the space of three men on one side with Dorian, the remaining three of them had to find a way to get comfortable short of sitting on each other’s laps. At first, Cullen had sat ramrod straight, embarrassed to even brush against the elf. But the longer the game went on, the more they leaned in closer to each other, until Aelis’ thigh was flush with Cullen’s, and _Maker_ it was getting difficult to think, heat building in his belly and stretching downward--

The door to the tavern flew open, slamming against the stone wall. Everyone inside froze, even Maryden. In the doorway, bathed in the light of the full moon, stood Alistair. In the three weeks he spent with them at Skyhold waiting for word from Hawke, the Warden had made himself scarce. He spoke only to Leliana or Aelis and trained in the latest hours of the night, when only Cullen was awake to hear him cursing across the yard. For him to show up at the tavern at all, let alone in the busy hours after dinner, was highly unusual. He was in full Grey Warden armor, cloak and travelling pack on his back. In his gloved hand he clutched a rumpled letter.

Cullen tore the braided crown off, hoping no one had noticed. 

“Inquisitor,” Alistair said, eyes hard and face unreadable. “Gather your advisors. Now.”

\---

The letter, as it would turn out, was from Hawke. He had tracked a group of Grey Wardens gathering in the Western Approach, and he believed they were on the verge of beginning their desperate attempt at raising a demon army to end the Blight for good using blood magic.

“Blood magic,” Alistair growled. “Why does it always have to be fucking blood magic?”

Their options were limited, and time was exceptionally short. Given Hawke’s information, it was likely a test rather than the grand attempt, but they still had no idea what force of Wardens to expect, or if they would already have a contingent of demons when they arrived. It would take the Inquisitor nearly 12 days to reach the Western Approach on horseback, and that would be at top speed. 

“We need to leave right away,” Alistair insisted. “We cannot let this continue.”

Cullen opened his mouth to argue, they didn’t have enough information and their scouts had only just reached the hostile desert terrain, but Aelis spoke first. 

“I agree. We leave tonight.”

Three voices spoke at once, the advisors, for the first time, of one mind. 

“Inquisitor--!”

Aelis held up his hand, and they all fell silent. 

“The Wardens don’t have time for us to wait. I need to leave now if we want to save them, and it still might be too late. I’ll gather my team. Prepare the horses.”

There was no arguing with him, Cullen knew. The elf had a stubborn set to his jaw.

He took Blackwall, Varric, and Cassandra. Varric didn’t even complain about the late departure, not after he heard about Hawke waiting for them there.

“If we don’t haul ass, he’ll just try and deal with it himself. I love Garrett, but he’s a fucking idiot.”

And so Aelis left that very night, astride his Ferelden Forder, Alistair and his companions in tow. Cullen watched him go from the gate instead of his office, still tipsy and heart wrenching in his chest. Josephine, Leliana, Bull, and Dorian stood with him, all silent as they watched their Inquisitor depart. 

_We should spend more time together_.

But of course they couldn’t. No matter the softness in his voice when he said Cullen’s name, the way his thigh pressed against his in the tavern, Aelis was the Inquisitor, and they were at war. His three weeks in Skyhold, that chess game, had been a temporary reprieve for training and gear, nothing more. Cullen couldn’t expect a chance to spend so much time with Aelis again. There was too much to do, too much at stake.

Even so, Cullen couldn’t stop himself from doing something rash when he returned to his office. He wished he could blame the alcohol, but he knew it had much more to do with the fragrant crown he still clutched in his hands. He borrowed one of Leliana’s birds, scrawled a hasty note to a contact in the Emerald Graves, and the crow took to air before Aelis had been gone even an hour. He knew it was silly, perhaps even outright romantic, but Cullen couldn’t stop thinking about the way Aelis’ eyes had lit up when he spoke of the beast.

 _I’ve always wanted a red hart, but they’re quite rare. I hear they’re only found in the Emerald Graves_. 

Cullen knew he should rest, or at least try to. The weather had been fair while Aelis was in the keep, but scouts reported a stormfront from the North heading their way. The cold would not be kind to his body in the withdrawals. He still remembered Samson’s hobbled steps in winter in Kirkwall, the way he had to use a walking stick when it snowed. 

But Cullen couldn’t stop thinking about _Aelis_ . The delicate curve of his neck, the twist of his lips as he grinned, the press of his warm thigh against Cullen’s. The heat with Hawke had been angry, simple, fleeting. He did not think about running his hands through the Champion’s hair, did not imagine how the dawn light would gather on his sleeping face. Cullen wanted Aelis in those...baser ways, too, if the uncomfortable weight in his pants was any indication, but he also wanted _more_. It was bigger, softer, harder to name. It made his heart beat heavy and fast against his chest, made his palms sweat and his head spin. 

_Maker_ he felt like a teenager. 

And he lingered in his office because he knew once he got into bed, he would act like one, too. 

Cullen sighed, putting his head in his hands. 

What was he going to do with himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just think it's funny that every time you are at Skyhold, it's always bright and sunny with blue skies, so I choose to believe that good weather follows the Inquisitor when he comes home. 
> 
> They are playing King's Cup, if anyone was curious. 
> 
> Also, Cullen does 'borrow' one of Leliana's birds in game at some point--we never find out exactly for what. She mentions it at a War Table meeting, and he's very embarrassed until she goes "You can just ask next time, silly". 
> 
> Ah, what a sweet dork he is.
> 
> Also...the rating on this may have to go up, hehehe...


End file.
